


Ruinous

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Lemon, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rutting, Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Aziraphale’s wings are nothing like Crowley’s. They’re much smoother, less textured by roughness and a ten-thousand feet free-fall into boiling sulphur at the end. It doesn’t matter if Crowley fell eons ago, there is lingering, permanent damage to his wings. He cannot heal them from the damage and every moult that comes in bears scars that he cannot rid them of.





	Ruinous

**Author's Note:**

> So a nonnie on tumblr sent me [this](https://obaewankenope.tumblr.com/post/186174953307/ugh-wings-as-erogenous-zones-crowley-sitting-in) and I just _had_ to answer it with porn lmao

After everything that has happened to them it’s no real surprise that their wings are—to put it finely—a little ruffled. Feathers sticking up in wrong angles and twisted from using wings seldom revealed on a plane where a mortal—mostly mortal—child can see them is, unfortunately, expected. It didn’t stop them from revealing their wings of course, it was a welcome opportunity to stretch them out before quite possibly dying a painful death. But with the aftermath of Armageddon being Arma-did-not-happen it leaves them both with awkward wings and no chance to really address them until after their Trials—if you could call them trials when they were sort of more performative executions than anything else.

It is at this point that Crowley discovers he is _far_ more sensitive than Aziraphale in regard to his wings. The angel had sat quite patiently while Crowley worked his fingers through feathers, straightening them out, untangling the fine barbs and barbules to make messy feathers neat and smooth—feathers perfect for flying. The primaries, with their long and asymmetrical styling, were the first that Crowley had sorted out, knowing from personal experience of how tender they could be when twisted and bedraggled. The secondaries further along were easier, stubbier than the primaries and easier to work the barbs into order. Aziraphale had let out a relieved sigh at the completion of his primaries and secondaries being put to rights. The alula feathers were the last to be neatened by Crowley’s hands before they paused for a break and some wine.

In truth, Crowley needed that wine to focus on controlling himself.

Aziraphale’s wings are nothing like Crowley’s. They’re much smoother, less textured by roughness and a ten-thousand feet free-fall into boiling sulphur at the end. It doesn’t matter if Crowley fell eons ago, there is lingering, permanent damage to his wings. He cannot heal them from the damage and every moult that comes in bears scars that he cannot rid them of.

Aziraphale tuts at the sight of his wings—“Oh _Crowley_ ”—and sets to Sorting Them Out with the kind of single-minded focus that the angel exercises with his books. It is, Crowley admits to himself, a rather heady feeling, being the centre of Aziraphale’s focus. It only gets worse—better—when Aziraphale gently extends his right wing and runs a hand reverently along the covert feathers eliciting a soft shudder from Crowley that is just shy of a full-body one. _Just_.

“Angel, stop _dawdling_ ,” Crowley snaps and his voice breaks a little on ‘dawdling’ because the feel of Aziraphale’s hands on his wings is way too much to just ignore. It’s the softest touch his wings have experienced in- since- for a long time.

“Your wings are in such disarray darling,” Aziraphale says and there’s sadness in that voice, a world of heartbreak and grief at being faced with evidence of Crowley’s fall and the lasting damage of it. After all, Crowley has never had a snake curled around his head like Ligur with his frog, or Hastur with his maggoty hair. Just a little tattoo on the side of his face and reptilian eyes easily hidden behind glasses. Crowley’s wings are proof that he fell in a way that he hides and it’s exposing and makes him vulnerable.

The soft and gentle touch of Aziraphale’s hands is painful in its kindness.

Aziraphale starts with his alulas and twists with nimble fingers at the barbs until they’re neat and smooth and much softer than they’ve been in a long time. It’s a heady, mind-breaking sensation that only gets _more_ when Aziraphale’s hands more to the primary coverts beneath his alula and works at them. It’s no wonder that Crowley starts to tremble in earnest at the sensation and it’s no wonder that Aziraphale notices said trembling when the wing he’s working on shifts minutely beneath his fingers.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale looks at the demon over the wing, concern written in his voice and on his face. “Crowley what is it?”

“Nothhhhing,” Crowley hisses out and that just tells the angel far too much, that hissing. Crowley is already cursing his hissy nature when Aziraphale makes a small sound of realisation.

“Oh, oh,” the angel says and Crowley closes his eyes because the demon doesn’t want to even try and see Aziraphale’s face now that the angel has realised. “This- you- your wings are very sensitive I take it?”

Honestly. Crowley rolls his eyes behind his eyelids because, honestly. “What gave it away, angel?” he snaps waspishly and starts to draw his wing back toward him only to be drawn short when Aziraphale’s hands close gently but firmly around the point of the radius and ulna. “Angel?”

“ _Very_ sensitive,” Aziraphale repeats. He brushes his fingers down to the primaries of Crowley’s wing, pulling on them lightly and setting them to rights. The motion makes Crowley jump, back arching and head tilting back because _oh_. “Turn around darling,” the angel commands and Crowley automatically starts to turn.

The angel releases his wing at the last moment, forcing Crowley to bend it at a slightly awkward angle before drawing it back. Aziraphale appears from behind it as it pulls away and Crowley is shocked, eyes wide at the sight of the angel staring at him looking almost _hungry_.

Crowley is familiar with that look on the angel’s face, directed at food or some new book he hasn’t had a chance to read just yet. Crowley just isn’t familiar with it being directed at _him_.

“Lord but just _look_ at you,” Aziraphale says. He reaches out, pulls Crowley towards him from the kneeling position they each have taken at the base of the sofa so the other could sort out their wings, and Crowley goes willingly. All too willingly. “ _Magnificent_.”

Something in their six-thousand-year relationship has shifted at this point, something where only having each other in All Truth has altered the fundamental nature of their Arrangement. There’s no “going too fast for me”, no “we’re hereditary enemies”, no more opposition and sides and choosing anything other than each other. Now it’s an immutable reality of union, acting in unison, on the same page, playing the same notes, quoting from the same script.

Together.

Aziraphale’s fingers are up in his feathers, working on the barbs and sending soothing healing magic through them, repairing old damage to bone and core feathers that has Crowley dropping his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder and just clinging on to the angel for dear life.

He’s kneeling over Aziraphale, near completely in the angels lap, and all Crowley can do is hold on and _keen_ at the tenderness of Aziraphale’s hands in his wings. The burning pain of falling that has never quite gone away is soothed by those hands, those nimble, ink-stained fingers plunging into the plumage and tending to primaries and secondaries and coverts of all categories until Crowley is a collapsed mess in the angel’s lap.

“You’re _ever_ so good for me, dear,” Aziraphale whispers, tilting his head to lean it against Crowley’s nestled against the angel’s neck. Crowley keens at the praise and the hands still massaging his feathers and healing injuries ages old. It really is so very much to feel the love and tenderness in Aziraphale’s hands soothing the pain of damaged wings.

Aziraphale—Crowley knows—can fly if he wishes it. Crowley cannot. Not in the same way. He uses his magic to move across whereas Aziraphale can just unfurl his wings and teleport in a way Crowley cannot. Because his wings are damaged. But here they are, healing, under the loving ministrations of an angel who loves him and whose love is fixing damage that Crowley has never let himself believe could be fixed.

“I don’t quite know how She could think you evil my dear,” Aziraphale says, a hand leaving Crowley’s wings and pressing against his spine in the space between where his wings protruded. The contact burns after the soothing touch on his wings and Crowley’s hips twitch. “I think you are beautiful and so _good_ you hurt to be so.”

Crowley’s hands clench on the beige-dyed wool of Aziraphale’s coat as he fights back a sob. He’s pressed so closely to Aziraphale’s chest that he can feel the vibrations of every word the angel says and Crowley wonders if the angel can feel his heart trying to escape his body. Aziraphale’s praise has always burned in all the best ways.

“I’ve seen you save children left to drown, breathe life back into animals gone before their time,” Aziraphale says.

The angel removes his other hand from Crowley’s wings and snakes his arm around Crowley’s waist, forcing the demon to spread his legs further and grind down on the thigh pressing up against him. It makes Crowley’s breath stop; a choked moan ripped from him as he tips his head back. Aziraphale takes advantage of his exposed neck, pressing featherlight kisses against it, so soft and gentle and full of love it _hurts_.

Love isn’t meant to hurt, they say, but Crowley knows the best kind of love wrecks you even as it builds you back up. That’s what loving Aziraphale is. Destruction and creation all rolled into one. He knows he’ll never recover from it and Crowley is fine with that.

“You’ve grieved every life lost to war and violence and evil, I know,” Aziraphale continues in between the featherlight kisses he’s trailing down Crowley’s neck. “Every hurtful thing, every horror committed. They cut you far deeper than they cut me and I long to protect you from it all. I want to hold you close and never let you go, my dear. I want you safe and happy and to know you are so, _so_ loved.”

Crowley sobs.

The pain of being loved undoes him. The hand between his wings—fingers gently ruffling axillar feathers in gentle tandem with Crowley’s rutting grinding against Aziraphale’s thigh—undoes him.

Aziraphale kissing him so kindly on the lips _ruins_ him.

Crowley lets himself be ruined intentionally for the first time in his existence and falls in a whole different kind of way.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor poor Crowley. I have a thing for him just _needing_ praise lmao
> 
> I hope kedreeva is proud of me for actually spending ages googling about wings to the point of spending _longer on the research_ than the writing in total xD
> 
> As always, comments and kudos sustain me :)


End file.
